Black Sun, The Battle of Summit Springs, 1869

by Terry C. Johnston

  By the time he had stepped out into the cold, bitter wind scuttling between the blank-faced buildings, and had crossed the muddy, rutted street, Bill Cody was feeling mighty warm inside. A generous but potent mix of whiskey and anger, and not a little singed pride as well.

  He nearly threw the door off its hinges as he stormed into the small office warmed by a glowing sheet-iron stove in the corner. Near it, behind a small table littered with paper and ledgers, a wiry man sat hunched over his books. The bald spot at the back of the civilian’s head was the most remarkable thing about the man, since that spot was the first thing Cody saw, until the clerk tore his eyes from his accounts and focused on the tall, blond plainsman.

  “You the goddamned quartermaster agent for Wallace?”

  “Who would be asking?”

  “William F. Cody—that’s who, by damned!”

  “C-Cody?” stammered the agent, pushing slowly back from his table, his eyes glancing here and there as the tall youth advanced on him.

  “I’ll show you what I think of sonsabitches lie about me!”

  “I did no such thing!” he shrieked as Cody picked him up by the lapels of his wool vest, knocking over the chair.

  Cody threw the agent backward into the coal scuttle, scattering kindling and wood. Like an enraged animal, he was on top of the agent before the man realized what happened. Cody never used his fists, choosing instead to cuff the agent with an open hand, swinging it back and forth over both sides of the clerk’s face, swearing, shoving, throwing the man backward against the walls, picking him up and tossing him again, then holding him with one hand while the other continued thrashing the agent, who vainly tried to keep both arms clutched over his face through it all.

  Finally the man crumpled into a sobbing heap. The anger seemed to drain from Cody, right into that muddy floor where the agent lay curled in a ball, whimpering, begging not to be hit again, in the next breath swearing that Cody would pay for assaulting an army employee.

  “Army employee? Shit! I’m an army employee, mister. Ain’t nothing special about kicking hell out of you—you go lying about me. Spreading word that I’m a thief.”

  “You stole army property,” he said in muffled tones beneath his folded arms. “Sold it to innkeeper Mason.”

  “I can see my beating didn’t teach you a thing!”

  “Stay away from me, Cody!” he cried like a wounded calf.

  For a moment Cody stood over the agent, fists flexing and relaxing. As much as he wanted to lash out until he got an apology from the man, he couldn’t. The anger had seeped from him like milk from a cracked bowl.

  “Get out of here!”

  The agent peeked out beneath an arm, one puffy, red eye glaring in challenge.

  “You’re a damned joke, mister,” Cody muttered, swinging a boot at the agent just to watch the man flinch. “I’m going, all right. But you can count on me coming back.”

  “I’m pressing army charges—”

  “No you won’t.”

  Cody was out the door, without closing it, across the street and back to Mason’s place to borrow a horse.

  “What’d you do to him?” Walt Mason asked in the wagon-yard out back as Cody swung into the saddle and adjusted the reins.

  “Gave him the thrashing his contemptible lies deserved.”

  His heels hammered the horse’s ribs as he shot out of the yard, into the street, past track’s end, galloping southwest, down the Wallace Road.

  By the time he had dashed the thirteen miles to Fort Wallace, Cody had himself worked into another blue lather. Enough of a fume that Quartermaster Samuel B. Lauffer ordered one of his men to bring Colonel Bankhead and the sergeant of the guard immediately the moment Cody darkened his door.

  “You’re fortunate we don’t string you up, Cody,” Captain Lauffer warned. “Horse thieves aren’t taken to very kindly—especially in the army.”

  He lunged two steps toward Lauffer and watched the captain back away and unsnap the mule-ear on his holster. “I’m not a thief. Those are army horses—but I didn’t sell ’em to nobody.”

  “My agent tells me otherwise. Comes down to it, your word against his. And frankly—you’re not the sort of man whose word I’ll take over my agent’s.”

  “I just gave that lying son of a bitch a thrashing that he’ll not soon forget … and I’m fixing to do the same to you—you don’t change your tune!”

  Lauffer’s face blanched. “You assaulted my employee?”

  “Hammered him like a nail through white pine, I did!” Cody yowled, shaking a fist at the quartermaster.

  “That’s enough out of you!” roared a voice from behind them both.

  Cody wheeled, shoulders hunched, finding Colonel Henry C. Bankhead, commander of Fort Wallace.

  “General,” Cody said with some relief, addressing the officer by his brevet rank awarded during the Civil War.

  “What’s this all about, Captain?” Bankhead demanded.

  Cody watched the half dozen soldiers pour through the door behind Bankhead. Every one of them had their pistols drawn, although they were quickly ordered to point the muzzles at the floor.

  “Colonel, I didn’t steal no—”

  Bankhead waved him off. “I asked my quartermaster a question. You’ll keep your mouth shut until I ask you to speak.”

  Lauffer explained the situation with the agent finding the animals at Mason’s, how the agent had seized the animals and returned them to Fort Wallace since they were army property—and then proceeded to tell Bankhead how Cody had just admitted beating up his civilian agent in Sheridan only moments before the colonel had come through the door.

  “What have you got to say for yourself, Cody?”

  “I did thrash that lying dog who works for Lauffer—but I’m no thief. I demand those animals back, General. They were loaned to me by Assistant Quartermaster Hayes of the Fifth Cavalry, stationed down at Fort Lyon.”

  “Appears you’re in a jam now, Cody,” Bankhead replied.

  “I’m responsible for them,” said the scout.

  “Should have thought of that before you left the property with Mason,” Lauffer said. “Regulations and your orders both state that you were to leave the animals with Lauffer’s agent in Sheridan. From all appearances—looks like the agent might have a case against you for assault.”

  Cody trembled, his fists clenching again, fuming for a chance at Lauffer.

  “I’ll be back, Captain. Promise you. And when I do—it won’t just be a thrashing I’ll give you.”

  “That’s it, goddammit! I order you off this military reservation, Cody!” growled Colonel Bankhead. “I ever catch you near Wallace again without permission—I’ll see to it myself you’re a guest in my guardhouse.”

  “Don’t you worry, Lauffer,” Cody hissed, edged toward the door by the soldiers. “I’ll be back. And as for you, Colonel—I’ll tell you what you can do with all your army regulations—”

  “Gentlemen, see that Mr. Cody is put aboard his horse and escorted off the Wallace reservation,” Bankhead ordered of his guards.

  “That won’t be necessary, General,” Cody said, shrugging the guards off. Bankhead nodded and the soldiers backed off. “I know my way back to Sheridan just fine.”

  * * *

  “What the divil is this all about, Cody?” asked Seamus Donegan as Cody burst into Mason’s saloon.

  The young plainsman told them both the story, including the second thrashing he had just given the agent after working up another blue funk on the ride back to Sheridan.

  “You beat hell out of the man a second time in one day?”

  “I did,” he answered, rubbing his knuckles, then washing down his tonsils with more whiskey. Cody was no longer drinking by the glass, he held his second bottle in his hand, swilling the amber liquid like it was creek water.

  “You better take it easy on that saddle varnish, Bill,” Seamus coaxed, seeing Cody begin to sag moments later.

  “I’m going to sleep now, I
rishman,” he murmured, gently shoving the bottles out of his way as he slumped over the table.

  “No you don’t,” Seamus said, attempting to keep Cody from passing out. “Too late, dammit.”

  Donegan struggled to drag the half-conscious man to his feet, beneath his big arm. He shuffled Cody in front of him, then hoisted him over his shoulder. The Irishman stood like an oak.

  “Ho, Mason! You got a spare room for this drunk?”

  “He’s already paid for it, Donegan. Number six.” He snagged a key from under the rough counter, tossed it to Seamus. “Put ’im to bed before he gets himself in any more trouble.”

  Hours later the hammering of many boot-heels on the wobbly, creaking stairs leading up from the saloon below, along with the muffled voices in the hallway overlooking the gaming room, awakened Donegan from a fitful sleep.

  He turned in his blanket on the floor, watching the spill of yellow seeping in under the door. Shadows of several legs polluted that whisper of light. He rolled over, grabbing for the two army pistols he kept rolled beneath his coat, which he used for a pillow.

  A voice pierced the thin door. “Cody? Bill Cody?” The speaker hammered with a fist.

  “Bill!” Donegan whispered at the younger man sprawled across the bed. “Wake up, goddammit!”

  “You in there, Cody!” The fist hammered again.

  “Who the hell is it?” Donegan hollered as Cody rolled his foggy head off the blanket and mumbled incoherently.

  “Captain Ezekiel, Bill. Israel Ezekiel—you know me.”

  “What’s he want at this hour?” Cody whispered, holding his head in both hands as he rose to the side of the bed.

  “What you want, Captain?” Donegan called out.

  “I want to talk to Bill Cody.”

  “Can it wait, Israel?” Cody said.

  “Afraid not.”

  “Let ’im in.” Cody took one arm from his aching head, waving it at the door.

  Donegan stuffed one pistol in his belt, then slid back the bolt. He opened the door and stepped back as the light and noise from the gaming room downstairs spilled into the tiny room. Shadows from three of the soldiers muddied the yellow light.

  “Bill, you gotta come with me,” Ezekiel said quietly over the rattle of chips, the scraping of chairs and the banging of the out-of-tune piano.

  “What’s he gotta come with you for?” Donegan demanded, closing on the doorway. He watched two of the brunettes behind Ezekiel bring up their pistols.

  The captain pushed the weapons down. “We won’t need any gun-play here, mister. I merely came to ask Bill to come along with me.”

  “What for, Israel?” Cody asked, standing but wobbly still, anchored against the bed’s crude foot-rail for support.

  “Assault on the quartermaster’s agent.”

  “Shit,” Cody grumbled. “He had it coming … lying ’bout me the way—”

  “I’m sorry, Bill. Sorry I had to be the one to come for you.”

  Cody staggered closer to the doorway, then of a sudden his eyes blinked clear as he straightened. Then wagged his head, angry, filled with disappointment. “You didn’t have to bring these … bring your brunettes, Israel.”

  Ezekiel stared at his boots a moment, sheepish. “Figured I had to, Bill. What with the way I heard you was acting. Beating on the agent, then coming out to Wallace to threaten Lauffer the way you did.”

  “A pompous duck, that one is,” Cody snarled. He shook his head. “Why’d you bring your … brunettes. I thought we was friends.”

  “You haven’t been in too good a humor last few hours. Didn’t know how you’d act. You’ll go with me now, as a friend?”

  “I’ll go with you—if you’re gonna take me in by yourself.”

  “I got your word on it, Bill?”

  Cody stepped right up to Ezekiel. “My word’s been good enough for you until now. Anything changed that between us, Israel?”

  The captain thought on it a moment, then shook his head. He turned, whispering to his squad of Negro soldiers. They quietly retreated down the steps to the gaming room as the saloon grew quiet, watching the brunettes march into the street, go to saddle then ride slowly away from Mason’s place.

  “All right, Bill. It’s just you and me now. You ready to go?”

  “Gimme a minute. Splash some water on my face.”

  “I wanna go along, Bill.” Seamus whirled on the captain. “Can I go with him?”

  “Afraid not, mister. It’s just him and me going back.”

  “Where you taking him?” Donegan asked as Cody stepped to the bed table, dipped his hands and brought the water to his face.

  “Wallace. Who are you? Do I know you?”

  “Donegan.”

  “You’re one of Forsyth’s men, weren’t you?”

  He nodded. “What happens when he gets to Wallace?”

  “I’ve got orders to lock him up, awaiting the pressing of charges.”

  “For beating that civilian?”

  “Stealing army property.”

  Donegan chuckled as Cody came up, struggling with his coat. Seamus helped him get his arms through it. “Cody and me stole lots of things this past winter. Sometimes it was sleep, sometimes it was Mexican beer. But Bill Cody will never steal army property.”

  Cody leaned over and gave the Irishman a one-armed hug. “Thanks, my friend.” He looked at Ezekiel as they scuffed from the room. “Donegan’s right. I’d never steal army property, Israel. Shit, I never found anything the army owned that was worth the stealing.”

  Chapter 11

  Late March 1869

  “No place like home, Seamus,” Bill Cody grumbled as they climbed down from their saddles in front of the guardhouse. The whiskey had given him a head the size of Kansas Territory.

  By the time Captain Ezekiel and his prisoner had reached the hitching post outside Walt Mason’s saloon, the Irishman had convinced the soldier that he should be allowed to come along to Wallace.

  “I know Colonel Bankhead.”

  “Know him well?”

  Seamus pursed his lips, then finally shook his head. “Not really. He brought out some troops from Wallace after Carpenter rescued those of us with Forsyth.”

  Israel Ezekiel studied the tall Irishman a moment. “Only place you can sleep is with Cody in the guardhouse.”

  Seamus smiled, winking at Cody. “You haven’t scared me off yet, Captain.”

  “You want to ride with Cody and spend a night on a poor soldier’s hay-tick mattress—that’s your business. C’mon.”

  Now well into the wee hours of the morning, Fort Wallace was as quiet as the inside of a church on Saturday night. Some greasy-yellow light spilled from the window across the muddy parade to show that the Officer of the Day was on duty. Over by the quartermaster’s billet the only other light coming from the window reflected from the muddy puddles of rain water slowly freezing as the temperature continued to drop. The guardhouse door opened when the three horsemen reined up out front.

  “Take these horses to a stall and wipe them down,” Ezekiel ordered a young soldier who took the civilian horses away. A second guard stood holding the reins to the captain’s animal.

  “C’mon in, boys,” said a rotund officer who suddenly filled the yellow-lit doorway.

  “I’ll be damned—is that you, Graham?” Cody sang out.

  “Nobody else gonna haul his ass out of bed for you in the middle of the night, Cody.”

  Cody dragged Donegan up to the door. “Like I told you, everything’s gonna be all right. Seamus, here’s another old friend: Captain George Wallace Graham.”

  After they shook hands, Graham led the pair into the main room of the guardhouse, followed by two young soldiers. “Why don’t you go get yourself some sleep, Israel,” Graham suggested.

  Ezekiel nodded, looking at Cody. “You get some sleep too, Bill. I fear tomorrow’s gonna be a long one.”

  He glanced at Donegan and was gone, closing the door behind him.

  “We
ll, boys. I haven’t got much in the way of anything to offer you—but I’ll give you my best,” Graham said, waving an arm toward the ring of cells surrounding the center room on three sides.

  “Damn, this is a stroke of providence—having you here tonight, Graham … when they bring me in on these charges.”

  Graham’s face went sour, as if he didn’t like the situation any better than Cody. “My company’s on guard duty tonight. That soldier took your horses away will see to them proper. So we’ll do what we can to get through the night.”

  “Where’s my bunk?” Donegan asked.

  “Take your pick, Irishman,” Graham replied.

  “I’m not gonna sleep in a cell, Captain,” Cody protested.

  Graham wrinkled up his nose a moment, thinking. “I can sleep in this chair over here just fine. Why don’t you sleep in the sergeant’s bunk, back there.” He flung a thumb at a bed against the far wall, one with a thicker, wider mattress than those bunks crowded in each tiny cell.

  “Believe I will, George. G’night, Seamus.”

  “Got a extra blanket?” Donegan asked, heading back through an open cell door.

  “We can rustle one up for you. Cold out tonight, ain’t it?” Graham said. “Sorry about you being a guest and all.”

  “No need for apology, Cap’n. Slept some of me best nights in a prison cell. From Boston’s constabulary to Fort Phil Kearny. Locked in some of the best and some of the worst in me time! Doubt this will be the last night for me behind bars.”

  By the time Cody got his boots off and his feet stuffed beneath the blanket, Donegan’s snores already rumbled against the guardhouse walls.

  After breakfast the next morning Cody asked Graham to have the post’s telegraph operator come to the guardhouse.

  “You want to send word to your wife, Mr. Cody?” the old soldier asked as he took back the sheet of paper on which the young scout had scrawled his message. He glanced over it once, then looked up at Cody a moment, before reading the note a second time. “You want me to send this, do you?”

  Cody nodded. “To General Sheridan. He’s the one hired me as a scout for the army. I figure Sheridan himself ought to know what a jam Bankhead and you boys got me in out here.”